They climbed a few staircases and Peter was very aware of a sharp sword just about an inch from his back. He tried to remain calm, for the sake of the others more than anything. He knew Mike was trying to keep control of the situation but even the Texan was in way over his head. He would need everyone to stay sensible if they were going to get any chance of escaping. With the thought of being sensible, Peter's eyes immediately focused on Micky.

The drummer's hands were twitching at about a hundred miles an hour, his feet shuffling and dragging. He looked to Mike's face for some reassurance but simply found the schooled, disinterested look. But there was worry in the eyes, and that made Micky feel worse. His heart pounded hard and he felt physically sick. He would sooner die now than live another second on the edge of death with his life in someone else's hands. The fact that escape seemed impossible made him long for the end even more. At least death is an escape route. He knew the others hoped for a way back home, but Micky knew more about these people than any of them, and he knew that after a mere week in their company, all of them would be longing for death.

The stairs wound up and up like a tornado until finally they opened out into a large hallway. Directly in front of them were two huge wooden doors that towered over their heads.

Davy felt slightly sick as they were pushed through the door and forcibly thrown to the floor. For a moment, none of them dared to look up and see who was standing before them. They could feel his presence, he oozed power, and they knew that their lives were in his hands.

Heavy footsteps warned them of his approach and Micky squeaked in horror as his head was pulled up by his hair and he faced eyes of ignorance and hate.

"From where do you come?" The man growled. He was large with a small black beard and squinty eyes. He wore robes of burgundy and gold and he displayed boots of shiny ebony leather.

Micky didn't answer, he didn't quite know where to begin, and he gasped as someone kicked him from behind.

"Where are you from?" The man boomed above his head.

Micky's mouth worked through the pain in his side and he murmured the words, "Los Angeles."

"There is no such place!" The man spat, shaking Micky painfully before throwing him back to the floor. The drummer instinctively curled away, closing his eyes and trying to hide.

The footsteps moved down to the next in line but as he went to grab a fistful of Mike's hair, the Texan fought back, refusing to be treated like an animal. He clambered to his feet and stood defiantly before the lord, never breaking eye contact.

The man raised an eyebrow in bemusement. "Where are you from?"

Mike was silent and just glared, teeth gritted. He hated this man from the first time they mentioned his name. He looked every bit of what Mike expected - pompous, arrogant and cruel. The man was smug, basking in his immense power; this was almost too easy.

The lord grew restless quickly and gave a solemn nod to one of the men behind, who promptly grabbed at Mike's head and kicked him viscously in the back of the legs, making him fall painfully to his knees which cracked against the stone floor.

"I have heard you speak with foreign tongues, and you wear the rags of barbarians. You have scared by people and desecrated our altar. You are not gifts of the gods; you are four plagues, a punishment. To treat you well would be aiding the demons of the underworld who seek weakness in human souls. We will not welcome evil beings, but we will make use of them, we will treat them duly."

As the boys were dragged from the room, Mike's ears caught the Lord Dargon's final, hushed words.

"Sell them as slaves and make sure the ebony one is taught a lesson for his arrogance."

Micky's eyes were as round as saucers as he peered through the small window in the door of the cell. The whip cracking sounded like the crackle of fireworks on July 4th, but there was no happiness in this hellish place. Mike's eyes were painfully closed and he seemed to be muttering something over and over again as if that would drown out the pain. Rivers of blood were flowing freely now, creating little channels in the cobbled floor and trickling away slowly, almost peacefully. There was blood around Mike's mouth where he bit down on his lip to stop from crying out.

Micky knew that was the way Mike was, even if he suffered more than ever for it. Micky quivered with tears that were building up within him. He had been Mike's roommate for a long time now and he had spent quiet moments with the man that hardly anyone dared to get close to. Micky knew that beneath Mike's shell, there was a very under-confident boy who believed that he would always be a failure. So he would push himself to the limit, determined to do something with his life and never, ever show that he was suffering or scared. To be scared is a sign of weakness.

By the twentieth time the whip cracked against soft flesh, the ivory skin could no longer be seen beneath the crimson blanket of blood. Mike didn't move, he was drained of all energy, his arms felt like lead, and his head felt even heavier. Most of all he was humiliated and didn't dare to look in the direction of the cell door where he knew that two almond eyes of innocence were watching him as if he were the new messiah that had just been nailed to his crucifix.

None of them slept that night. None of them spoke. They knew that escape was impossible. There was nowhere to escape to; everyone was against them. Micky felt silent tears roll down his face for what seemed like the hundredth time but he couldn't turn to Mike for comfort, his heart was too heavy with guilt for getting them in the situation in the first place, especially as Mike had suffered the most. Micky gazed at the painful marks that marched across Mike's back. They seemed to stop him from coming closer; the straight scars acting like a fence and Micky felt heavy with sadness. He knew that Mike probably blamed him too, hated him for this and Micky decided that it was best that he left Mike alone, left everyone alone.

The morning sun was pitiless and it roused them quickly. None of them fought when they were dragged from their cell, none wanted the punishment they had all seen demonstrated the previous evening. Mike would have to wear the permanent scars of his pride for the rest of his life, which was enough persuasion for the others not to dare anything.

The market place of the town was bustling with people and animals. The boys were more bewildered than they had ever been in their lives and their hope was quickly fading. Davy felt like falling to the floor and dying when he felt the dull thud of two rotten tomatoes hit him, thrown by the local kids. His eyes gazed around with a kind of stale movement, nothing he would see could bring hope into him, as far as he was concerned, they were doomed, and it was all Micky's fault. Hate began to boil up inside of him and threatened to bubble at the surface. This hate had been neutered for the last two nights and he knew that it was only a matter of time before it escaped.

The boys were tied, with their hands in front of them, to four of several vertical poles in the center of all the commotion. Before they could blink an eye, people were quickly gathering, but they all appeared poor. Mike's mind was miles away, centered on the pain in his back that had been haunting him for over fifteen hours. The cold English wind was like a second set of lashings, as it seemed, despite his shirt, to freeze on his back. He turned to Micky and found that the drummer was looking away from him, ignoring him, like he had done all morning and Mike wanted to cry. Now even Micky thought he was useless and a failure. Mike's shoulders sagged in defeat and his eyes lowered. He didn't care what happened to them now. Micky didn't want to know him now, so nothing mattered anymore.

Micky noticed a young man standing away from the crowd; the same man who had been so enthusiastic about them being from the gods. It was the boy who had been at the altar.

Eric watched the treatment of the strangers with disdain and anger. They could learn from these strangers, they were special, maybe even magical, but he couldn't think of anyway to prove this to his fellow worshipers. His eyes fell on the young man with hair like a wild Celt but the face of an infant. There had to be some way to release these strangers and allow them to work their magic.

Davy tugged angrily at the rope but was soon stopped when he noticed that the voices of the crowd had ceased and all eyes turned to three figures on horseback that entered the market area. He could tell immediately that they were the wealthy men of the town and he knew that soon he would be sold. The nightmare was only just beginning.